


Red Red Tango (Run Run Run)

by ThreeFeathers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex, dubcon, where did this come from I write fluff!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:24:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeFeathers/pseuds/ThreeFeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blow is a blow, except when it isn't, and neither of them were expecting this.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Kinkmeme fill: dubcon, rough sex, Moriarty like the type that'll push him around.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Red Tango (Run Run Run)

John sees his face through the crowd and everything just sort of goes red. Moriarty - the bastard, the fucking bastard - he's across the street, practically within arm's reach, standing in an alley on a fucking cellphone behind a bar like, like he's a normal bloke out for a drink, like he's not a psychopathic murderer and John can't take it.

There's an odd ringing in his ears and his vision is grey at the edges. John doesn't remember crossing the street but he's maybe three paces behind the other man when he turns off the cellphone. Moriarty turns -

\- right into John's fist.

Moriarty reels back, eyes wide and surprised and mouth red red red with blood and it isn't ENOUGH and John punches him again, in the stomach and when he doubles over John grabs a handful of hair, gets a good grip and slaps him so hard his hand is stinging and Moriarty's head snaps to the left, pulling strands of hair out in John's fist.

"Shit," the criminal gasps, "Oh, shit, shit, Johnny -"

John hits him again, and Moriarty's knees buckle so he's just hanging there, his weight suspended by John's hand in his hair and John finds he's got the other hand around the little bastard's throat and he's squeezing, squeezing like he could just choke the life out of him and oh god he COULD he could end it all right now he could stop dreaming about a semtex vest and the delicate dance of red dots on Sherlock's body he could just DO IT -

-and that's when he looks down and sees Moriarty's erection.

He's -

What -

"Do it again -" The words are a gasp from red red red lips, hoarse from where John's got his hand around his neck, "Do it, do it, do it!"

Distantly, John feels his hand tighten on Moriarty's throat. His other hand comes up, and John stares at it, wonders what it's doing, how is that his hand? It can't be his, can it?

It comes down, hard, across the other cheek and now Moriarty's got a bloody nose to go with his split lip and he's got his pants open and he's got his hands on his own cock, he's gasping and choking and bleeding and hard, so so so hard under John's hands. John's hands, he did that.

John's hard too, and Moriarty sees it.

The criminal writhes, suddenly, slides like a snake out of John's hands and he should be worried, he should be hitting him again, he should be running or snapping his fucking neck or SOMETHING but Moriarty's nuzzling at the bulge in his jeans, lapping at the material and clutching at his hips, desperate and wide-eyed and his lips are so red. He's got John's zipper down and then his pants down and what is he doing he shouldn't be doing this but -

\- but Moriarty's lips are red red red and wrapped around his cock and that phantom hand, can't be his, it's wrapped up in Moriarty's hair again and he's pushing in before he can think, just thrusting like it's any warm hole and Moriarty is moaning, high and tight and needy around his cock.

Fuck. Fuck, what is he doing?

Moriarty's mouth is good but his throat is better, and the little choking noises he makes when John holds him down on his cock are like fine wine, sweet and heady and he can't afford them, he can't but he's doing it anyways. There's pressure against his leg, oh god Moriarty is frotting up against his leg, just rubbing his bare dick against the rough material of John's jeans because he's got both hands wrapped around John's hips, trying to take him deeper in his mouth.

John can't - he lifts the leg Moriarty's been humping, puts his boot right against the bastard's balls and applies just enough pressure to bring tears to his eyes. John watches, wide-eyes and mesmerized: Moriarty is gagging himself on John's cock, his balls trapped between his boots and the pavement, and he's so so so hard look at that he's leaking all over himself, little dribbles of precome that John can see sliding down his prick.

A thin, incoherent whine escapes John's lips and then he's got both hands on Moriarty's head and he's shoving in, no manners no please and thanks and he's coming like a freight train oh god. His vision goes white but when he comes around Moriarty's suckling at his slowly softening cock like it's a treat, best ever, can't let it go and his balls are still under John's boot. He hasn't come.

John shove him off, hard, hard enough to send him tumbling and it's only John's quick reflexes which save Moriarty's balls from irreparable harm. And Moriarty - he just lays there, cock and balls hanging from his pants, split lip and one hell of a shiner and god no wonder he was choking so much how could he breath through the bloody nose? And he's still hard and he's just laying there, looking up at John wide-eyed like he's never seen anything like him.

"Jerk off." John hears himself say.

Moriarty blinks, and his voice is slow as molasses. "...what?"

There's an edge there, the glint of a razor blade and John heard that in the pool and no fuck that he's got his hand in Moriarty's hair again, tight tight tight he's ripped a few strands out. John doesn't care, and feels a sort of distant surprise over that fact.

"Masturbate, Moriarty. Jerk yourself off, beat it because we both know you're desperate but like fuck am I going to touch you."

John makes the words a lie as soon as he says them, one hand in Moriarty's hair and now the other is cupped around his jaw. He digs his thumb into Moriarty's split lip and watches as his pupils blow, only the faintest ring around pools of black and he can't look away and now Morairty's making tiny hurt noises around his thumb and masturbating on his knees in a dirty back alley with John's come down his throat and his marks all over his face and if John could get it up again he thinks he'd fuck him against the pavement and maybe beat him with a belt or with his boot. It sounds like a good idea in his head so he repeats it to Moriarty and Moriarty just freezes, all his muscles lock all at once and then he's coming all over his hand and his shirt, dizzy-looking and damn near to passing out.

The front door of the bar to their right opens for a moment and sound spills into the alley, an oil slick full of color in still water, and John is jerked violently back into reality. He looks down at Moriarty. He's splayed out on the ground, cock still out and trembling faintly and totally out of it.

John could snap his neck.

John could cover him up.

For a long moment, John does nothing at all. Then he tucks his cock back into his pants and does up his jacket - and turns and walks away.

There's movement behind him but he doesn't turn to look.

"You should fuck me next time," Moriarty says to his back, and he pauses but no, he is John Watson and John Watson is steady and sensible and most importantly not a criminal so he doesn't turn back. Moriarty laughs, high and tight and a bit hysterical and something comes loose in his chest - not the only one in shock, not the only one out of his depth, except John spends every moment in Sherlock's company out of his depth.

John licks his lips and tastes something a little bit like victory.

**Author's Note:**

> (This is not my usual fare at ALL. I have no idea where this came from. )


End file.
